


and i'm alive, irayo eywa, we're alive

by leslie (gorgonlovebot)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Introspection, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:06:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29784831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gorgonlovebot/pseuds/leslie
Summary: In which Gimli made unnecessary trips and brooded, and Éomer waited.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig & Gimli (Son of Glóin), Éomer Éadig/Gimli (Son of Glóin)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	and i'm alive, irayo eywa, we're alive

**Author's Note:**

> hi im in lotr hell  
> ìf yall ever peeked my bookmarks you would be as surprised as i am that my first actual contribution to this fandom is not gigolas. but the books gave me too much aglarond and gimli feels, and the movie rohan and éomer feels. the appendix mentioned them being close friends following the war. i took that and ran with it. hell yeah. you gotta be the cowboy and create the content you wanna see in the world.
> 
> im not a native speaker, and reading tolkien had rendered me absolutely fucking unable to write very pretentious sentences so if this doesn't vibe or sounds weird at places please tell me. thank you. enjoy this terrible word vomit. im awfully proud of it.

“Does it not inconvenience you greatly, to make a trip this arduous just to stay for so few days?” Éomer asked one day, when they were standing on a balcony of Meduseld, watching the sunset spilling itself like golden mead over the vast plains. 

Gimli mulled over the question. Indeed there was no need for him to see Éomer personally, for they could correspond over letters, and messengers of Rohan are famous for their galloping stride. In fact, it would certainly outspeed his own journey from Helm’s Deep to Edoras, lightly and swiftly as he travelled. 

Though he would never admit it, not for fear of mockery but for not wanting undue concern, these hasty trips had been the only luxury he permitted himself, ever since he officially took up the mantle of Lord of the Glittering Caves.

He risked a glance at Éomer. The king was nearing forty summers, his rulership over Rohan now settled snugly over his shoulder like a heavy cape. He seemed— older, somehow. Not physically, though such changes would be—were—most obvious and would not escape Gimli’s watchful eyes. No, Éomer himself had aged much further than his years: his mouth these days tended to settle into a firm, straight line instead of the fearless grin he used to wear in his youth; his hands more accustomed to quills and goblets than to swords and reins. This Éomer was one that had molded himself until he fit onto the throne, until he no longer found himself lacking in comparison to his forefathers. 

With a pang, Gimli remembered that Éomer was never meant to be king; yet here he stood anyway, while his uncle and cousin ever rested within green grass. Éomer was born for the battle: he was at his happiest leading the charge. One could take a look at him and instinctively know that he stood for everything essentially Rohirric. Tall, golden and youthful, in the battlefield he had drawn eyes upon himself as he _shone,_ beautiful and terrible. 

Gimli’s hands itched for something, anything. An axe, a hammer, a chisel: it did not matter; Éomer’s entire being called for him to rise up and _go_. It inspired him so greatly he was overwhelmed to the point of breathlessness. 

It was not unlike standing in the sun. 

“You are awfully quiet, my friend,” Éomer reminded him. “Do you have any words to defend your actions?”

His tone rang gravely, yet the familiar spark of mischief in his eyes betrayed the underlying humor— as if Gimli had ever needed it to know him. 

“Bah,” he finally said. “Can’t a Dwarf lord escape his duties once in a while and go impose on the king’s hospitality?”

Éomer chuckled. “Or so you said. But I couldn’t help but notice the short duration of your stays, as well as your insistence not to arrange welcome feasts. Strange qualities of an imposter, don’t you think?” 

In truth, he kept his visits to Edoras brief because his work in Aglarond would pile up over his absence, no matter how capable his second-in-command. Years into her establishment, the Glittering Caves had grown exponentially, attracting dwarves and men alike from not only Rohan, Erebor or Ered Luin, but also all of the West. His duties as Lord thus grew as well, to a degree that he found himself constantly being nagged by his scribes to perform even his own bare essential tasks. 

By all rights, he shouldn’t even be here. But he couldn’t say as much, so he just harrumphed, arms tensely crossed. “Thought we had established that I am a dwarf like no other.”

“We did,” Éomer said. “Among the great qualities of your kin, whether by looks, by prowess or by skills, yours have always shone the brightest.” 

His words were half-jesting, but his voice was sincere. It made Gimli’s chest ache. He spoke no further, resolving to look out to the sunset, scanning the red-dyed field for signs of smoke. 

Once, it would have meant foes, battle and bloodshed; now it only served as a reminder of Rohan’s newfound, tentative peace and her people’s strength restored. Paid with the price of Éomer’s ever-increasing lines around his eyes and his ever-growing restlessness; his longing for the open plains. 

Gimli knew this feeling well. When Aglarond were but a tiny colony, there had been work to do and too few hands to handle; he used to do his share of tasks around the caves like any other dwarrow. Simple times it was, then: he mined and forged and scouted, and with his hands full, he had little time to reminisce. But now, with paperwork dogging his every step, he often caught himself thinking of the War. 

It was ridiculous, he knew. Yet he couldn’t help remembering the early days of the Fellowship, when they were hale and whole; of Lothlórien, where he first met his Lady; of the three exhausting and glorious days running across Rohan, singleminded in pursuit. Of the rush of battle and the headiness of being alive. 

It was ridiculous, because he wouldn’t trade this peace for anything else. There were dwarrowlings born not knowing of war nor hunger, and his eyes grew suspiciously misty whenever this was brought up. Yet the wonders of old had diminished; the Golden Woods had long emptied. His Lady now resided west of the sea, in the home of her kin, where Gandalf and Frodo also sailed, and Legolas would soon follow. The breaking of the Fellowship had sprinkled them all over Middle Earth like seedlings in a newly plowed field, all eager to establish their own legacy for the age. 

It was ridiculous, yet he couldn’t tell Éomer that the fire of his one-dwarrow camp on his way to Edoras could never compare to the fire that had illuminated his friends' faces and warmed their spirits; instead, it only served as a pale imitation of adventure— one that he could not help but recreate, over and over again . 

Judging by Éomer’s kind eyes watching him as he watched the dying sun, the king knew his heart nonetheless. He smiled at Gimli, devoid of any mockery nor curiosity. 

Yet another sign of change. Once Éomer would have jostled him with jests about this melancholy, and though Gimli would have growled false threats in response, the heavy mood would soon lift. The Éomer of present merely patiently waited, not expecting anything but his company. He was giving him space to brood; Gimli realized. Definitely changed, this one. 

He closed his eyes. If he tried hard enough, he could imagine them on the walls of Helm’s Deep, lost in the terrible calm before the night storm. They could have lost everything, then; nonetheless he had stood without regrets. It was only fitting that he yearned, now. 

When he opened his eyes again, Éomer was no longer looking at him, but casting his eyes out North instead, and Gimli knew they were thinking of the same thing. 

Such was the price kings and lords paid, Gimli mused. There were things that they would never be able to have, until the end of their days. Nevertheless he had paid that price to see his life's work, his people, grow and flourish, and Éomer had as well; and if he knew himself and Éomer, then come what may, no regret nor resentment shall mar their hearts.

They stood in silence for a bit more, then Éomer straightened up, and stretched. 

“Come, my friend,” he said. “Supper calls, and you could tell me over the meal about your kin’s work restoring the keep.”

Gimli nodded. His melancholic mood had somewhat lifted, and he smiled at Éomer in kind. “Aye, and when the tale is done, I shall expect stories from Minas Tirith and Ithilien as repayment. I want to ask after your lady sister and Legolas, and how they fare.”

Éomer’s eyes crinkled. For a moment, his youth went rushing back to his ruddy cheeks and his eyes glimmered just so under torchlight. Gimli had not realized when the servants had lit them up. “A fine deal, Master Dwarf. Let us go and see it done.”

**Author's Note:**

> i was kidding. i am not proud of the among us reference
> 
> title from marceline by willow


End file.
